It was a comfortable place, the wide verandah at Warwingie, a place much used by the Warners on all occasions, save during the heat of the day—but the long hot day was drawing to a close now. Slowly the sun was sinking over the forest-clad hills. The heat haze which had hung all day over the eastern outlet to the gully cleared, the faraway blue ranges grew more distinct, and the creeper-covered verandah was once more a pleasant place to lounge in. From the untidy, half-reclaimed garden, came the sound of children’s voices, subdued by the distance, and the gentle lowing of the milkers in the stockyard behind the house. But no one came on to the verandah to disturb Tom Hollis and Bessie Warner, the eldest daughter of the house—perhaps they knew better—and yet these two did not seem to have much to say to each other. He leaned discontentedly against one of the posts, moodily staring out into the blue distance, and every now and again flicking his riding boot with his whip; but she looked happy enough as she swung herself slowly backwards and forwards in a rocking-chair, her hands clasped behind her head. Such a pretty girl, oh, such a pretty girl, she was—so dainty and pink and white. Her rosy lips were just parted in a smile; the long, level beams of the setting sun, falling on her through the passion vine, lingered lovingly in her golden hair, and made a delicate tracery as of fine lace work, on her pink gingham gown. Such a pretty picture she made, rocking slowly backwards and forwards, thought her companion, but he dared not say so. And then too it was so hot and so still it was hardly wonderful they were silent.

Silence seemed more in keeping with the quiet evening. They could not agree, and yet they could not quarrel openly. He brought his eyes back from the hills at length to the girl’s fair face.

“Oh, Bessie,” he said almost in a whisper, “oh, Bessie—”

“Now, Tom,” she interrupted, “now, Tom, do be quiet; whatever is the good of going all over it again?”

“If you could only like me a little,” he sighed miserably.

“Like you a little! I have liked you a good deal more than a little all my life—but there’s where it is. I know you a great deal too well. I like you, oh yes, I believe I may say I love you quite as well even as my own brothers, but—marry you, no thank you. I have lived all my life up here at Warwingie, up among the hills, and I ‘m just tired of the monotony of it. Nothing ever happens, nothing ever will happen, I suppose; it’s most horribly unexciting; but anyhow I don’t see I ‘d better matters by going and living alone with you at Tuppoo, even if you ‘d take me on such terms, which, of course, you wouldn’t.”

“You know I would,” he said drearily.

“Don’t be so foolish, Tom Hollis,” said Bessie sharply, rocking away faster than ever. “You know you wouldn’t do any such thing. You ‘d despise yourself if you did. Why don’t you despise me?—I’m sure I ‘m showing myself in an extremely disagreeable light for your benefit.”

“But I know you, you see. I know you so thoroughly,” he said; “and I’d give—I’d give—”

“There, for goodness’ sake, stop, and let’s hear no more of it. I can’t and won’t marry you—it ‘d be too slow. I don’t want to live on the other side of the ranges all the rest of my life. If I ‘ve got to live here at all, this is the nicest side, and I ‘ve Lydia and the children for company, to say nothing of papa and the boys—besides, you ‘ll come over sometimes.”

“I shan’t,” he said, sullenly, “I shan’t. If you don’t take me, I ‘ll not come here to be made a fool of. I shan’t come again.”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” she said calmly; “you will; you ‘ll forget all this rubbish, and be my own dear old Tom again. I should miss you so dreadfully if I didn’t see you three or four times a week.”

A gleam of hope Hashed into his sad brown eyes, and passionate words of love and tenderness trembled on his lips, but, for once in his love-making, he was wise, and turning, gazed silently down the gully again. She would miss him—very well then, she should; he would go away, and not come back for a month at least. The only fear was lest in the meantime some one else might not woo and win her. Those brothers of hers were always bringing some fellow to the house. However—

A bell inside rang furiously, and five boys and girls, ranging between the ages of twelve and three, came racing in from all corners of the garden. Bessie rose from her chair, and shook out her skirts.

“That’s tea,” she said; “you won’t mind a nursery tea with the children, will you? Lydia and I always have it when papa’s away. The Campbell girls are here too. Harry, you know, is very much in love with Dora, and, like a good sister, I ‘m helping on the match. Aren’t you coming?”

He had intended to decline, but she put her hand on his arm in the old familiar way, and he weakly gave in.

“Aren’t you dull, all you women alone?” he asked.

“No, sir, of course not; besides, they ‘ll all be home to-morrow for Christmas.”

“They ‘ve at Kara, aren’t they?”

“Yes, that bothering old Wilson always has a muster at the most inconvenient times. They want to be home, of course, so they Ve taken every man on the place to help. Dick, at the mature age of ten, is our sole male protector.”

“They can be back to-morrow, though?”

“Oh, yes; they Ve bound to be here pretty early too. It’s Christmas Day, you know—at least—. Why, what was that?”

She paused on the doorstep and listened.

“Some one coming into the yard,” said Hollis. “They must have got away earlier than they expected.”

“No—they—.”

A sharp cry—an exclamation of fear and terror, and men’s voices raised, loud and peremptory.

“That’s not—” began Bessie, but Hollis pushed past her into the house. It was a bush house built in the usual primitive style of bush architecture, with all the rooms opening one into the other and dispensing with passages altogether. The dining-room, a big sparsely furnished room, had doors both front and back, and looked on the yard behind as well as on the garden. The table was laid for a substantial tea. Mrs. Warner, Bessie’s stepmother, a good-looking woman of thirty, was at the head of the table with the tea-pot in her hand, but the children had left their places and clustered round her; two other girls of sixteen and eighteen were clinging to one another in a corner, and two women servants, raw Irish emigrants, were peering curiously out into the yard, where half a dozen horses and men were now standing. The cook, an old assigned servant, had taken in the situation at once, had made for the dining-room followed by the other two, and was now sitting in the arm-chair, her apron over her head, beating the ground with her feet.

Hollis saw it all at a glance—the big dining-room, the frightened women, the silent children, the sunlit yard beyond, the horses hitched to the post and rail fence, the half dozen bearded blackguardly men, with pistols and knives in their belts—noted it all, even to the blue and white draped cradle in the corner of the room, and the motes dancing in the sunbeams that poured in through the end windows—noted it all, and looked down on the girl at his side.

“Oh, my God!” he muttered, “it’s the Mopoke’s gang, and—.”

He was unarmed, but he looked round vaguely for a second. Two of the men stepped into the doorway and covered him with their pistols.

“Bail up, you ——-,” said the shorter of the two, a man in a dirty red shirt and torn straw hat, who was evidently the leader of the party, “bail up; throw up your hands, or—,” and he added such a string of vile oaths that Bessie, shuddering, covered her face with her hands. Hollis did not at once obey, and in a second a shot rang out and his right hand fell helpless at his side—shot through the wrist.

“If the gent prefers to keep ‘em down, I ‘m sure we ‘re alius ready to oblige,” said the little man, with grim pleasantry, interlarding his speech with a variety of choice epithets. “Now then, mate, back you steps agin that wall—and Bill,” to the other man, “you just let daylight in if he so much as stirs a finger.”

Hollis leaned up against the wall, stunned for a moment, for the bullet had smashed one of the bones of his wrist, and torn a gaping wound from which the blood was trickling down his fingers on to the carpet, but with the armed bushranger in front of him he realized the utter hopelessness of his position. Help himself he could not, but he never thought of himself, he never thought even of the other helpless women and children; his heart had only room for one thought—Bessie, pretty dainty Bessie, the belle of the country side. How would she fare at the hands of ruffians like these? He would die for her gladly, gladly, but his death could be of no avail. The men had come in now, and he scanned them one by one, brutal, cruel, convict faces, sullen and lowering; the only one that showed signs of good humour was that of the leader of the band, and his good humour was the more terrible as it seemed to prove how certain he was of them and how utterly they were in his power.

“You will kindly all stand round the room, with your backs to the wall, so I can take a good look at you, an’ you can impress my ‘aughty features on your minds—kids an’ all, back you go. I ‘m sorry to inconvenience you, Mrs. Warner, but you must just let the babby cry a bit. I can’t have you a-movin about a-obstructin’ my men in the execution of their dooty.”

The baby in the cradle had wakened up at the shot, had cried uneasily, and now not having been noticed was wailing pitifully, but its mother dared not move. She stood by the window, the two youngest children hanging on to her skirts, a strong-minded, capable woman, who had all her wits about her, but she too saw clearly they were caught in a trap. She looked across at Hollis, but he could only shake his head. There was nothing to be done, nothing.

A man stood on guard at each door, while the other four went through the house; they could hear them yelling and shouting to one another, pulling the furniture about, and every now and then firing off a shot in simple devilment, as if to show their prisoners that they had made sure of their prey and feared no interruption. The baby cried on, and the sunshine stole gradually up the wall; up and up it crept to the ceiling, and the clock ticked noisily on the mantelshelf—but there was no change, no hope for them. A crash of broken wood and glass told them that the bushrangers had found the store-room, and had made short work of bolts and bars. There were spirits stored there, brandy in plenty, as Bessie and her stepmother knew full well, and Hollis scanning their faces read clearly their thoughts—what chance would they have once these men began to drink! Ghastly stories of the bushranging days of Van Diemen’s Land rose before him, of innocent children murdered, of helpless women, and a groan burst from his lips as he thought that the woman he loved was in the power of men like these.

Bessie started forward, though the man at the door pointed his pistol straight at her.

“Oh, Tom,” she cried, “oh, Tom!”

“You go back,” ordered the guard angrily.

“Don’t be so hard,” said Bessie, suddenly. “You’ve got us safe enough. What can a lot of women and a wounded man do against you? You look kind,” she added, “do let me give baby to his mother, it’s wearying to everybody to hear him crying like that, and let me bind up Mr. Hollis’s hand, oh, please do.”

Her voice trembled at first, but she gained courage as she went on. She looked the man straight in the face, and she was very pretty.

He told her so with a coarse oath that sent the shamed blood to her face, and then crossed the room and spoke to the other man.

They whispered for a moment, and then curtly told the woman they intended to hold Hollis surety for them. If any one attempted to escape, they would, they said, “take it out of his skin.” Then one rejoined his comrades, while the other lolled against the doorpost, his pistol in his hand.

Lydia Warner crossed the room and gathered her baby in her arms, and Bessie stepped to Hollis’s side.

“Oh, Tom,” she whispered, “oh, Tom—” “Hush, dear, hush—here they come.” They came trooping in with coarse jokes and rough horseplay, bearing with them spoils from Lydia Warner’s well-filled storeroom, among them an unopened case of battle-axe brandy. This was the centre of attraction. For a moment even the man on guard craned his neck to watch, as the leader of the gang, the man they called the Mopoke, produced a chisel and a hammer and proceeded to open it.

Their prisoners took the opportunity to whisper together, Mrs. Warner joining her stepdaughter and Hollis.

“What can we do, Tom, oh, what can we do? They are beginning to drink now, and—”

“Slip away if you can, you and Bessie.” “No, no, they will shoot you—besides, we can’t.”

Bessie was binding up his wrist, and Mrs. Warner, bending over it, seemed to be giving her advice. The bushrangers had opened the case and were knocking off the heads of the bottles and drinking the brandy out of tea-cups, but the Mopoke looked over his shoulder almost as if he had heard them, and briefly reminded them that he held Hollis responsible, and that if any of them “sneaked off” he ‘d shoot Hollis “an’ make no bones about it, for we ain’t a-come here to be lagged.”

“Nevertheless,” muttered Hollis, “one of you must go—Bessie, I think. They’ll be mad with drink soon, and once drink’s in them there’s no knowing what they ‘ll do to any of us—go, dear, go—”

“I can’t, I can’t.” The girl’s hands were trembling, as she bound her handkerchief round his wrist, and the tears were in her eyes. Creep away to safety and leave him to die—how could she!

He said again, “Go, Bessie, go, they’ll never miss you; it’s really our only chance—you don’t know what they’ll do by and by.”

“Lydia, you go.” Bessie slipped her hand into Hollis’s uninjured one and held it tight. Even in his anxiety and misery he felt in her clasp, he read in her eyes, a something that had not been there half an hour ago. Oh, to be safe once more, to be free to woo and win her.

“I can’t leave the children,” said Mrs. Warner; “the Campbell girls are no good, and besides, Tom wants you to go, don’t you, Tom?”

He nodded. It was true enough; he was wild with anxiety to get her away. He would risk his life gladly—thankfully lay it down, if only he could be assured that Bessie was across the ranges safe in the Commissioner’s camp at Tin-pot Gully, and for the other women, their danger would be the same whether she went or stayed.

Bessie clasped his hand tighter and leaned her face against his arm for one brief second, while her stepmother went on.

“As soon as it’s dark slip out, and I must try and keep them amused. Dora can sing a little and I can play. Go straight across the ranges, and if—and if—I mean, tell your father. Oh, Bessie dear, make haste.”

She left them and joined the others, pausing a moment like a brave woman to speak to the leader of the band, and so give Bessie a chance of a last word with Hollis.

The sun had gone down now and darkness had fallen. The room was wrapped in gloom, and Bessie mechanically watched her stepmother draw down the blinds and light a couple of candles on the table, which, while they illuminated the circle of bushrangers, only threw into deeper darkness the corners of the room.

“You will go, dear,” muttered Hollis, “if only for the sake of that plucky woman.”

“I will do what you tell me,” she whispered. “I can’t bear to leave you, Tom; if they should find out they will kill you. Oh, Tom, Tom!”

“They won’t find out,” he said soothingly. “They haven’t counted you, nor noticed you much yet. And Mrs. Warner is wonderfully plucky. You ought to try and save her and those girls. Bessie, you don’t know what fiends those men can be.”

“Yes I do,” she said, and he felt her hand tremble; “that is why I don’t want to anger them. They have made you responsible, and I ‘m afraid—I ‘m afraid to leave. Don’t you think they ‘ll go in an hour or two—just take what they want and go?”

“No, I don’t,” he said. “They are in for a drinking bout now, and God knows what they’ll do before it’s ended. Darling, for your own sake—for the sake of the others, for my sake, even—you must risk it and get away if you can. We ought to have help before midnight.”

“Bessie,” said Mrs. Warner, “come and help me to put the two little ones to bed. Mr.—I beg his pardon—Captain Mopoke says he doesn’t mind.”

“None of your larks now, missis,” said the Mopoke; “you jest mind what yer about, or I ‘ll let daylight into yer gallant defender there.”

“That’s the way,” whispered Hollis tenderly; “go now—go, dear.”

She lifted his hand to her breast in the obscurity, and stooping, laid her face against it.

“My darling,” he said passionately, “God bless y............